


The Strength of the Fates

by Stormkpr



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Canon Gay Couple, Enduring love, M/M, Nagron in the background but not enough to tag them in the ships, Reader request, Romance, Same with Crixus and Naevia, Sex, canon-divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29159823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormkpr/pseuds/Stormkpr
Summary: Killed by Batiatus and sent to the underworld of Tartarus, Barca must learn to take accountability for what he did wrong in life. Pietros, meanwhile, landed in the Elysian Fields upon his death but he will not accept the fate of an eternity spent away from his love. Requested by LaReineDuLune!
Relationships: Barca/Pietros
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13
Collections: Spartacus ▶ Barca / Pietros





	The Strength of the Fates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaReineDuLune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaReineDuLune/gifts).



> I was thrilled to fulfill this prompt from LaReineDuLune, who requested a Barca/Pietros fic along the lines of the book and movie “What Dreams May Come”. Full disclosure: I’ve never read or watched either the book or movie! But with the basic outline in hand, I set out to bring this to life and I hope readers enjoy it as much as I enjoyed the writing of it. 
> 
> The title comes from the poem “Those Who Love” by Sara Teasdale
> 
> T/W – Please assume that all trigger warnings in Season 1 apply to this fic. There will be references to suicidal ideation and sexual assault, though neither will be described in any detail. There will be explicit lovemaking towards the end.

***

“What is this place?”

Barca blinks and looks around. He is standing inside a cold, dank cell. The ground is wet and his feet grow damp. In the distance, strange sounds can be heard, eerie wails like the cries of ghosts. An acrid, punishing smell assaults his senses. He tenses, as if ready for battle.

“You are awake,” a sinister, thin voice speaks.

Barca whirls around. The voice seems to be coming from nowhere and everywhere. Barca cannot see his opponent or even gage his distance, not when the voice seems to somehow surround him. And not when he is surrounded by an endless sea of dark.

“Where am I? Who are you?”

“Tartarus.” A pause. “The answer to both of your questions is Tartarus.”

 _Tartarus_. Barca knows it as the name of both the underworld as well as the deity who lords over the place. And then the memories begin to flood Barca’s consciousness, memories of his final moments upon earth. The fight with Batiatus’ Roman guards. The now-obvious betrayal by Ashur. Batiatus’ last words, the final Barca would ever register upon the earth: ‘Now you’re free!’

_And Pietros…._

_Pietros. The last moment he looked into his sparkling eyes, the last time he touched him, at the party. It had been so joyous, the deliciously-wet rain pouring outside, the look on Pietros’ face at the idea of becoming free, of the two of them leaving the ludus to seek a new life, one they would control._

“Some of my people believe in an afterlife consisting of paradise. Of open fields and fresh fruit,” Barca says. He has a feeling that he knows that Tartarus’ reply will be but he needs to hear it.

“You did not earn a place there,” Tartarus answers. “Instead you are to spend eternity here. In Tartarus.”

Barca crosses his arms in front of his chest. Back on earth, his instinct was always to fight. But his body right now feels as if weighted down by the massive beams carried by new recruits. Perhaps his mind is telling him what his body already knows. He cannot battle a deity.

So he uses words instead. “Why?” Barca asks. “Was I that horrible?”

Tartarus laughs a bitter laugh. “Where shall I begin? You mercilessly taunted new recruits, even stooping so low as to piss in their food. You murdered a child and then lied to your lover about it. Even the way you spoke of your lover to others conveyed disrespect.”

Barca smiles a bitter smile. “Is that all? You forgot quite a few of my evil deeds. There are the hundreds I killed inside the arena, including my own father.”

“You were absent choice,” Tartarus replies simply.

“I had no choice about killing the child either!” Barca spits back, angrily, his hand made into a fist. “You forget that I was enslaved. I went from being the son of a chieftain to having to obey every whim of Quintus Lentulus Batiatus. Lay that transgression upon his feet!” Barca pauses and swallows. “And yes. I lied to my lover about it. I could not bear to face his disproval.” He opens his mouth again as if to say more but closes it. His throat is suddenly constricted.

“Interesting that you cared what Pietros thought. And unfortunate that you did not speak of him respectfully inside the ludus, instead using lewd words to describe the man you love. And while we are speaking of the ludus, what of your other crimes there? You tormented the new recruits, every year.”

“Such was done to me when I stood as new recruit. The ludus was brutal place,” Barca says in a low voice. He leans forward though he still cannot see Tartarus. The place he is in remains pitch dark and feels as if it grows colder by the second. He wraps his arms around himself. “I had to show all that I stood as warrior to be feared and respected. Doing so helped not just me but also helped ensure no one would touch Pietros.” He pauses. “And even if that were not the case, why should I have cared about the new recruits? Life had not been kind to me. While we are recounting everything ill deed I ever did, let us not forget that Rome destroyed my people, killed my first lover, took me from my homeland, enslaved me and branded me like an animal, forced me to fight and kill hundreds, forced me to watch helplessly as my second lover was sacrificed to arena, violated my body during their debauched parties….you will again have to excuse me if I was not bursting full with sympathy and love for new recruits! I had not much else to give.” Once again he pauses to take a breath. “My world had narrowed to my pride in standing as gladiator, my love for Pietros and my friendship with that mad Gaul Crixus. I could not afford any other entanglements.”

“Do you even know the name of the boy you killed?” Tartarus asks, as if Barca has not spoken.

Barca is quiet for a moment. “I told you. That murder belongs to Batiatus, not to me. But no. I do not recall the child’s name. As a slave, the prospect of marrying Pietros and fostering our own child is something that was forbidden to me. So no, I could not muster up sympathy for the son of Ovidius.”

“All of what you say is true. And yet the world is full of other men and women who have suffered wrongdoing as well. You still refuse to acknowledge any culpability or make any apology for the evils that were within your control. Let us not forget the times when you actually relished the act of killing inside the arena. You never lost sleep over it.” Tartarus’ voice grows deeper. “It is decided, Barca son of Mago. You shall remain here. In Tartarus. Perhaps your time here will allow you…further reflection.”

“Wait!” Barca cries out, fearing that the deity is soon to exit, soon to leave him alone for the rest of eternity. “Tell me! Where is Pietros? Does he yet live? Is he well?”

“You do not want to know.” The voice sounds more faint.

“Tell me! I beg of you!” The despair is starting to settle in for Barca knows he may never, ever leave this place. He looks likely to suffer cold solitude for as long as hell exists. But he must know Pietros’ fate!

“I shall not tell you. Instead I shall show you.”

And then suddenly it is as if Barca is there, back at the ludus on that horrible night and the days that followed. He sees it all. He watches, feels, smells, and tastes every minute of it. Barca crumples to the ground, shivering uncontrollably, unaware that he is crying out.

***

Pietros was born a slave, so he has endured many horrible days and nights. But the night of Barca’s disappearance was almost without parallel. To go from such a high to the utter depths of despair, mental agony so intense that it manifested as physical torture.

Pietros could not have cared less about the party, though he was glad to see the gladiators happy and to drink the wine. What thrilled him even more than the prospect of freedom was the knowledge that Barca truly loved and adored him – so much so that he was about to purchase freedom for both of them. Once free, Barca could easily have found another young man, one he need not pay to have released. But if Barca’s actions hadn’t told the story then the look in his eyes had. Pietros knew he was loved deeply by the man who he adored – and soon they would be free. He had watched Barca depart the party with Ashur and waited for his return.

Then he continued to wait and wait endlessly in what became the worst night of his life.

One hour turned into two. The party continued on, the men singing, drinking, and fucking. Pietros had begun to pace. He had walked to the gate that penned in the gladiators, craning his neck, certain that if he just stood there for a minute or two, he would hear Barca’s footsteps or see his face descending the stairs. But he didn’t.

He walked back to the party. Turning his head, he hoped that maybe finally, at last, this time, he would see Barca walking down the hallway. But no.

A few more hours plodded by. Pietros drank more wine but it just made his stomach hurt. At long last, he began the trek to the cell he shared with Barca. And still he had hopes. _Maybe this time._ As he walked, he kept turning his head around hoping that at long last he’d see Barca charging down the corridor. But still Barca did not return.

He reached the bed and slumped down upon it. The bedding still smelled of the sex he and Barca had enjoyed. Sleep failed him. There was nothing to be done but to lie upon his side and look at the door, hoping he would hear or see Barca any minute now. There was nothing to do but to breathe.

Pietros realized at one point that he must have passed out for an hour or two, as sunlight began to stream in. He forced himself to rise, and then Ashur was there and his mouth was forming words. Barca was gone. He had purchased freedom for himself only, absent sufficient coin for both men, and had left.

_I thought he loved me._

But he was gone. A nagging voice told Pietros that Ashur lied, that the truth was even worse and that there was only one thing that would keep Barca away from his arms.

_No, no, that is even worse. I will try to be happy for him. In order to avoid insanity, I will tell myself that he did what any man would do and I should be glad for it._

Pietros tried to go about his day. But the mental agony was unceasing, and it soon was joined with physical agony. Rape was an every day occurrence for many slaves living in the empire. But having spent the past few years with Barca, a gladiator who was shockingly gentle upon bed, Pietros was unprepared for Gnaeus. The man was brutal, inhuman, and sadistic. Without remorse and with glee, Gnaeus hurt him over and over again.

Brokenhearted and brutalized, Pietros saw only one way to end the pain.

***

Barca is curled up on the floor, reduced to a pile of rubble. He shakes and convulses. Perhaps it would have been more merciful if Tartarus had decided not to show him this.

***

The Elysium Fields truly are lovely.

Pietros doesn’t understand his circumstances though. As far as he knows, his heritage is mostly Egyptian and when an Egyptian dies, the gods are to weigh his heart and decide his ultimate fate. The good will dwell with Osiris in a lush and beautiful land. At least that is what his mother whispered to him so many years ago. So, is that where he is now, with Osiris?

Pietros spends an indeterminate amount of time without full use of his mental faculties and without the desire or ability to answer the question. He could only liken his state to the whispers he has heard about opium usage – he is as if drugged, floating without a care in the world, lazily drifting down a beautiful, endless river and enjoying birdsong and breezes.

Somehow though, slowly and gradually, he awakens from his stupor.

Although he does not want to. For the first time ever, his body is free of physical aches or pains and his mind is fully at ease. During his mortal life on earth, his moments of such bliss were exceedingly rare. When Barca brought him a persimmon or fig purchased during an outing with Batiatus, Pietros had experienced it, a kind of delight that pushed all pains to the side. And, of course, he had experienced it when they were together inside their dark cell; the joining of their lips and their bodies had brought him ecstasy.

It is hard to leave that now, hard to come out of this euphoric high, but his mind gently nudges him towards doing so. He has to learn where he is. And just as importantly, he has to learn what has become of Barca.

Once Pietros sets his mind to it, he is given answers simply and easily. The Elysium Fields treats its inhabitants well.

_The man you love is no longer of the world you recently departed. He was sent to Tartarus. He had too many sins, including the murder of Ovidius’ son and the fact that he lied to you about it._

“No!” Pietros cries out, though he is not sure whom he is speaking to. Jupiter? Ra? One of the gods of Barca’s people? In any case, he is suddenly awake and alert, feeling as if doused by cold water. “He would not choose to murder a child. Surely the sin belongs to Batiatus! And there was not a human being inside the Roman Empire who did not lie at least once. Surely that sin is forgivable!”

The answer, again, is shared simply and directly.

_Tartarus was allowed to make the final decision. He has Barca._

“Then I must be permitted to leave here!” Pietros demands. “Especially now that you have shared the truth with me, the fact that he did not leave me. I must be allowed to go to him!”

_The journey to the underworld is long and treacherous. You might not like what you will find there. You might never even find the man you love._

“I care not. Allow me to begin journey. Please.”

***

Pietros has never been on a trek before. He has heard tales of heroes leaving, departing their homelands to fight demons or armies. Barca sometimes enjoyed spinning a few tales and when he did so, Pietros had listened raptly. But within the span of his own life, Pietros only ever made one journey: when his first dominus sold him to Batiatus. He had kissed his mother farewell, had been promised he’d be allowed to visit her, but Batiatus never kept that promise either. In any case, Pietros had never left Capua. Once he arrived at Batiatus’ ludus, his life had been confined to the training sands, the dining area, the bath, the storage closets, and the cell he shared with Barca.

_And now I must somehow trek to Tartarus. How will I find Barca? What will I encounter along the way? Will Barca recognize me? Will he have been changed forever? How long has he been there, and how long was I in….the other place? It feels as though time no longer falls to predicted schedule as it did back inside the ludus!_

Pietros knows only that he has been given a nudge in one direction, and he sets feet to path, ready to find Barca.

***

Tartarus is a strange, baffling, dark place. It is endlessly black and cold with twisting roads that never lead anywhere. Pietros’ sandals are already coming apart and his throat aches for warm drink. His body wishes for a bed and blanket.

“Let me help you.”

Pietros’ body jerks, tensing up. Who has spoken and where is the speaker?

The voice sounds again.

“I have warm drink and soft bed. Just follow me.”

And slowly, a man comes into view. Ashur. He takes a few more strides towards Pietros.

“Come with me and take shelter from cold,” Ashur continues. “You have nothing to fear.”

“Stay away, Ashur!” Pietros replies. His voice is shaky and his body shivers again. True, the Ashur at the ludus was a snake but maybe the Ashur here in Tartarus is a better man. Perhaps he has changed. Pietros could use that warm drink and a place to rest. His feet feel as if he has been walking for centuries.

“Apologies for all that I have done wrong,” Ashur says, his voice smooth and rich. “It was another world, another time and place. Allow me to make amends. As you rest, I can give you information that will lead you to your heart’s desire. Ashur _always_ has information.”

Pietros takes a step towards Ashur but then freezes. There is that look upon Ashur’s face and there is the way the hairs on the back of Pietros’ neck stand up. He turns and runs, putting as much distance between himself and Ashur as he can.

***

Pietros runs and runs, and does not slow to a walk again until he is certain Ashur is not following him. Exhausted and lost, he takes a moment to slump against a tree. Its rough bark almost feels comforting.

His life on earth as a slave had also been full of fear. But at least Pietros had always known what to do, what was expected. Doctore’s ludus had been well-run and Pietros’ duties from sunrise to sunset had been clear. Here in Tartarus, he has no idea where to go, or even what is real.

Pietros’ last few years, those spent in Barca’s arms, had been downright easy by slave standards. They had been good. Pietros had been protected, loved, and cared for. None of the gladiators had dared to even glance at Pietros lest they incur Barca’s wrath.

Except Gnaeus. Pietros pushes thoughts of him out of his mind. He cannot think of him just now. He does know that the lingering pain and disgust will always taunt him.

He replaces thoughts of the rapist with those of the man he loves. He wishes he had Barca’s strong, protective arms around him now to guide him. Yes, Barca at times had been….crude. Especially when he broke words with other gladiators, fearing – as Pietros intuited – to be seen as weak. Barca at times was overbearing too. But those aspects were outweighed by the loving look in the Carthaginian’s eyes, the look which Pietros alone was benefactor of. They were outweighed by his gentle touches. Those hands which could snap an opponent’s neck as if it were mere twig, they were put to use on Pietros only for caresses and soft strokes. There had been the gifts Barca had brought him and the way the gladiator had perhaps accidentally revealed all, taking obvious delight at Pietros’ happiness upon receiving the gifts. There had been the moments of the two of them sitting off to the side of the dining area, holding Barca’s birds and talking of nothing in particular. There had been their bed, upon which Barca took care of Pietros, doing things to pleasure him that no one had ever done to him before.

_He does not deserve this. Barca does not deserve Tartarus, and I am going to get him out of here somehow._

Pietros continues walking. He sometimes encounters what he thinks must be spirits. They appear as beings partly of this world and partly of another. He asks every creature he meets for news of Barca. None has any. One wraith sends him into a forest. At first the forest is almost beautiful but after an indeterminate amount of time passes, Pietros know he is utterly lost. The trees had seemed so inviting at first, but now they stand eerie, their branches waving at Pietros as if they wish to confuse him, to smother him. He sits down to catch his breath. And then he sleeps, wrapping his arms around himself, wishing they were Barca’s arms back at the ludus, wishing he had that security.

He falls to slumber, though Pietros would view it more as if he passes out from exhaustion. No true rest comes, no comforting dreams. Instead he simply shuts off for a while.

When Pietros wakes, he feels a bit warmer and he senses a hint of sunlight reaching through the trees. And there is a blanket. Someone has placed a blanket upon him! Realizing he is not alone and that he is cared for, he nearly leaps up with happiness and excitement. Is it Barca? Who else would pay him any mind?

But it is not Barca. Instead, Crixus and Naevia suddenly stand before him.

“Crixus? Naevia? You-you are here as well?” Pietros manages, scrambling to his feet.

“We are no longer in the land of the living,” Crixus answers.

Pietros listens as they tell him a bit more, how they were reunited in life and able to spend years together. How they perished in their attempt at taking Rome down.

“But you cannot be in Tartarus!” Pietros protests. “You were good people!”

“We have sinned too,” Naevia says. “I especially have made grave mistakes.” Crixus places an arm around her waist as she speaks.

“Has not every man and every woman done the same?” Pietros asks. His voice is high and his arms flail. “We cannot all be punished for eternity! What of the Romans, who bought and sold and branded us as if we were animals? Who raped us and beat us according to their whims??”

As Pietros speaks the words, his mind reels. Naevia, Crixus, Barca, and himself. All four of them have been raped at Rome’s hands. Naevia took the worst of it by far, being female. But Crixus had been forced to Lucretia’s sexual servitude and more than once Barca’s body had been offered and taken at one of Batiatus’ parties. It was horrific. How can any just and fair gods allow them to suffer?

“Do not despair,” Crixus says. “The Romans will fall to deserved fate. And we have a path out of here. We believe we can find Barca.”

“Show me!” Pietros demands, deciding to trust that the two beings he sees truly are Crixus and Naevia, and not an illusion. Crixus was Barca’s closest friend.

“Come.”

***

The three travel onwards, for how long Pietros cannot say. He has never seen Crixus with such long hair and beard before. And he enjoys seeing Naevia’s fierceness; she is clearly unafraid of whatever Tartarus might throw at them. When the nights grow long and both fatigue and confusion threatens to overwhelm, Pietros finds that his two companions provide needed reassurance.

During their odyssey they sometimes encounter familiar faces. Some of them like Ashur or Batiatus try to mislead them, their eyes betraying their rotted hearts. Other times they encounter those who appear to be of the Elysian Fields, not Tartarus, those who seem to have traveled downwards for a spell to help them. There are fighting men who Crixus recognizes, one named Duro and one named Gannicus, the latter of whom Pietros had heard much about from Barca. There is a woman named Diona who appears often to Naevia, nudging the group along. Doctore visits once to do as the other good people have done, to show them the correct path and keep them from pitfalls. Pietros expects to see Spartacus, who he now knows actually avenged Pietros’ own death, but he jokes with Naevia that even in the afterlife Spartacus must simply have too many urgent matters to deal with. Naevia laughs and says, “No, he must be within his loving arms of wife!” Crixus smiles and kisses Naevia.

And at last the three stand before a vast, dilapidated building. As they look at it, each member of the trio has a feeling.

“He is there,” Pietros says. “Somewhere inside that labyrinth. I must go forth alone.”

Crixus and Naevia look at each other, their eyes shining with obvious love for one another. “It is time,” Naevia says. “We are to depart this place.”

“We are glad to have helped you on your journey,” Crixus adds. “Give Barca a punch in the arm from me.”

Pietros laughs at the thought, and sees the others return his smile. He hugs them, and with that the couple disappears. Pietros is to begin the final leg of his odyssey alone.

***

The structure is much the same on the inside as it stands on the outside. Cold, vast, dark, and confusing. Pietros once climbs a staircase that leads nowhere. He has to make his way back down. He once wanders through an endless corridor until he realizes that he is somehow walking in circles. He sits down to rest. He reminds himself to be brave and to continue on.

And then he sees it. A pigeon. True, pigeons have been everywhere both in the previous world and inside this one. But seeing one now must carry meaning! Barca held the birds so dear, and he and Pietros spent so many moments tending them. Pietros’ heart warms when he remembers the day he cooed over and coddled one and then turned to see Barca watching him. The look Barca gave was unmistakable. From his soft eyes to the loose set of his slightly-opened mouth to the way he leaned forward, Barca had made it clear where his heart stood. He had come up behind Pietros and bestowed a kiss upon his shoulder.

Accepting the bird as a sign, Pietros leaps to his feet and follows. It seems to fly slowly and it leads him down a passageway he has not yet observed. Pietros descends a flight of stairs and then walks down a winding corridor. And then he hears it. The sound is that of a man sobbing. It cannot be Barca; Pietros has never heard him cry before. But he runs towards the sound, knowing he recognizes it.

And then there he is. It is Barca, curled up as if a ball upon the floor. He is shaking and moaning.

Pietros squats down beside him and places his arms around the large man, best he can. Barca seems to accept the embrace but he does not return it. He remains trembling, folded in upon himself.

Pietros finds his tongue. “I do not favor the beard,” he says simply. “The hair that cascades down from your head is striking as always, but perhaps if we find clippers we can return you to clean-shaven look.” As he speaks, one of his hands combs through Barca’s hair.

Barca seems to register Pietros’ words and he makes a sound, perhaps a laugh or a snort or another cry. He accepts Pietros’ embrace and places his arms around him.

“Is it really you?” Barca asks. His voice is dry and rusty from disuse. “How is it that you are down here?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Pietros laughs, wondering if he sounds a bit like the brash Gannicus. “I cannot say I understand much of my journey here, though Crixus and Gannicus send you their regards.”

Barca seems to choke back tears and pulls Pietros to him even more tightly. “It is so good to hold you again. To look upon you. To smell you. Every moment without you has felt an eternity.”

“Same. Waiting for you to return from meeting with Batiatus, it was the longest night of my life. And you never did return, though I understand now that the fault was not yours.”

Barca slowly pulls himself away and uses a hand to wipe at his face. He meets Pietros’ eyes.

“Pietros. You must understand all that I have done,” he begins, his voice grave yet he continues to meet his lover’s eyes. “I killed a child. I lied to you about it. I used crude words with the other gladiators when describing the man who I love beyond reason. My folly in trusting Ashur got me killed and you brutalized to the point where you felt you had no choice but to end your life. I killed hundreds of men inside the arena absent any regret, one of whom was my own father. I even enjoyed the arena at times. And I tormented countless new recruits though I was absent any good reason to do so.”

Pietros smiles. “Hey. None of us is perfect.”

The two laugh at Pietros’ response. The younger man continues, “You also stood a good friend to Crixus, and you loved me well. As you did the two men who came before me. And I will not fault you for fighting to stay alive in the arena, or for trusting Ashur, as I did the same. I love you without condition,” he insists, meeting Barca’s eyes. “And – and I understand that we might be to dwell here for the rest of eternity. I am prepared to do so, to remain forever by your side.”

“No!” Barca exclaims. “You must leave this place and return to the Elysian Fields! You should not remain in this dank, ugly place. Find my first love, Cyprian. He never willingly harmed a hair on any man’s head; he never wished to take up arms and only did so absent choice. He would protect you. And love you.”

Pietros smiles again and strokes Barca’s hair. “Well that sounds enchanting but I do not favor getting together with the dead love of the man who stands my husband in all but name. I came here to be with you. Do not believe that you can push me away after all I did to find you!”

Barca wordlessly opens his mouth and then closes it again. His disbelieving eyes continue to search Pietros’ face. At last he manages, “Gratitude. Gratitude for finding me and staying with me. Even though the word seems not enough for the magnitude of your sacrifice.”

“Just having you in my arms is all I ever wanted. It is not a sacrifice.”

And then, it is made known to Pietros and Barca. Whether it is Tartarus, Jupiter, Ra, or another deity making the decision, the fate of the two men is conveyed to them. They are not to remain here. Nor are they for the Elysian Fields. Instead, they are to be returned to the timeline, to the world of mortals. Years have gone by and much has changed, but they are to be sent back to the world of ordinary men and women.

***

And in an instant, that is where Pietros and Barca are taken. They now find themselves inside a small cabin. Looking out the windows, they can see that it is dark outside and there is a white substance everywhere, one they recognize as snow. Barca saw it a few times before in Carthage. The sound of wind whipping around can be heard. The other sound comes from inside the cabin. A fireplace crackles and provides warmth. Two chairs are in front of the fireplace, one of which has a blanket flung over it. Atop a rug sits a large bed. Off to the side is a small kitchen area, and upon inspection the men find a bathing room behind a door.

Looking through the kitchen, Pietros finds a loaf of bread, strips of dried meat, glasses filled with water, and a jug of wine. He realizes that they truly have returned to the world of mortals, along with everything that accompanies it – hunger, thirst, sore muscles, nagging old injuries. And the need of sex.

Barca looks around the cabin as well and nods. “We have food, water, and shelter. It appears cold and dark outside. Let us spend the night inside here and then in the morning see what lies beyond that door.”

Pietros nods. Barca continues, “I am for bathing first.”

“I will tend the fire,” Pietros says. He spent many evenings lighting the fires inside the ludus. “Then I shall take to bath, and food with you.”

As Pietros stokes the fire, nudging it from a crackle to a blaze, he hears Barca bathe inside the next room. After a bit, he cranes his head through the doorway and suppresses a smile. Barca has found scissors and a razor, and is removing his beard.

“You did not need to do it straightaway,” Pietros laughs.

“I certainly did,” Barca smiles back. “My lover voiced displeasure over it.” And then after a pause Barca adds, “Though I do not look forward to cleaning the dark hairs from the floor.”

Pietros bites his lip and adds, “The mustache. Do not forget to remove it too.” With that he pats Barca’s bare rear and returns to the fireplace.

Later, both men have plates with food and drink and are sitting before the fireplace. Pietros takes a moment to stroke Barca’s smooth face.

“I wonder how long we were gone,” Barca murmurs, taking another bite of his bread.

“Crixus and Naevia told me they lived years together before they died.” Pietros glances down at his own plate, and breaks off a piece of bread. “Take it,” he says, holding it out to Barca. “You served us equal portions but you require more food.”

Barca shakes his head. “I’d prefer you to have it.”

Pietros nods. There is one thing he had contemplated doing. Back at the ludus, Barca had not wanted any other man to even gaze upon Pietros let alone touch him. Pietros had wondered if he should spell out to Barca what happened with Gnaeus, to be certain that he is still wanted despite having been soiled in this way. But Pietros placed the thought outside of his mind. Barca seems to know everything that has happened since he left, and Pietros is secure that Barca loves and wants him. Crixus never blamed Naevia for the brutal assaults which she had no control over. Pietros is not going to bring the subject of Gnaeus up.

The two men finish their food. Pietros does not care for the cold, but the fireplace is soothing as is the blanket around his shoulders. Barca’s presence alongside his provides warmth and security. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Barca use one hand to rub at his neck.

“How fares back?” Pietros asks. “There is that spot I used to massage, the one that always ached.”

“It still aches. But I should tend to you instead.”

“Allow me,” Pietros insists, preparing to stand.

“I would rather we take to bed now,” Barca says, taking a gulp of the last of his wine. “That will cause me to forget all old sores.”

“Me as well!” Pietros replies, eagerly.

Barca places a hand upon Pietros’ knee and looks at it as he slowly strokes. “Please tell me what you would like. Allow me to love you as you would choose.”

“I would request only that we love each other in a way that we can look upon each other’s faces,” Pietros says. “The rest I would leave up to you as is our habit.”

With that, the two men quickly turn down the blankets and shed their clothing. As Barca pulls Pietros underneath him and covers his lips with his own, Pietros feels that now the world has been put back to rights. True, his world was never right – life as a slave did not allow much peace. But feeling Barca’s naked body against his own, each man’s skin against the other’s, Pietros is content. He reaches his lips up for another kiss, and Barca obliges. He reaches his arms around to grip Barca’s back and shoulders. Their tongues remain at each other’s for many delicious moments as they just lose themselves in kisses.

“There is a jar of oil upon the nightstand,” Barca says at last.

“I know. I gave it full inspection as you bathed,” Pietros pants. “It feels thicker than what we used in the ludus. I am eager to have at it.”

“Yes. But let me suck upon you first,” Barca insists. He blazes a trail of kisses down Pietros’ neck. The adornments Barca had given Pietros are all back; Pietros once more wears the necklace, arm cuffs, and bracelets. Barca kisses all around each one – Pietros’ neck and collar and hard nipples. He reaches for his arm and kisses above and below the arm cuff. He grips his hand and kisses each finger, nuzzling his head against the bracelets. And then he works his way back to Pietros’ torso, loving his belly with his mouth and lips until he reaches Pietros’ hard cock.

“Yes,” Pietros whispers as Barca takes him inside his mouth. One of his hands grips Barca’s hair, enjoying its thick tangles. But he soon loses conscious thought. The feel of Barca’s lips and tongue is too exquisite, the pleasure too intense. It is a special kind of delicious agony, and Pietros is lost to it. “So good,” Pietros murmurs. “So good.”

“Do you want to release inside my mouth or release after I fuck you?” Barca asks, his voice ragged.

Barca’s question forces Pietros’ mind back to a measure of reason. “I want to be fucked,” Pietros says. “Now.”

As Barca reaches for the jar of oil, he asks, “Are we not to call it that? Perhaps the word ‘fuck’ is too coarse. I have learned that I must speak of you with respect at all times.”

Pietros reaches one hand to tweak at Barca’s hard cock which drips with pre-release. He had almost forgotten how big it stands. There is a certain pride in being able to take that much man inside his body. “We shall think of another word on another day. But for now let us just give each other what we crave and not think overmuch!”

With that, Pietros remains upon his back but pulls his knees up towards his chest, opening himself up. He has missed this so much and he finds it easy to relax. Barca applies the oil, which is indeed the thickest Pietros has ever felt, and then he slowly slips inside. Pietros allows one of his legs to rest against Barca’s shoulders.

“It is good to look upon your face,” Barca says as he begins to move slowly. “We should have fallen to this position more often.”

“I have no complaints about the others,” Pietros says simply. “Sometimes it was quite enjoyable to find you bending me against the wall.”

“Still, this is better,” Barca says, reaching down to press his lips to Pietros’. Barca moves slowly but smoothly, and Pietros reaches one hand around to stroke at his own cock.

With Pietros’ legs up, Barca then reaches to place a kiss upon one of his ankles. “An ankle bracelet,” he murmurs. “I had planned to gift you one next.”

“The gift would have been well received,” Pietros grins as he reaches a hand to stroke Barca’s chest. “I have my own sins as anyone else and vanity may be one of them.”

Barca continues to thrust and Pietros basks in the sensations. “Back at the ludus, this was one of the only times that I found myself truly happy,” Pietros murmurs after a bit. “When we were joined as one. It provided some of the only moments that I had not a care in the world. I always wanted to be filled with you. I craved it.”

“And you have no idea how eagerly I looked forward to hearing your moans. And seeing evidence that you were well-satisfied. It was a bigger rush than I felt in the arena, a better high than the cheers of the crowds!” Barca winces a bit. “Apologies. I resolved in the other world never to take enjoyment from killing, never to do it unless absent choice.”

“Let us hope that wherever and whenever we are, we can hold to that.” Pietros then smiles. His legs are starting to ache, and he nearly has to laugh at the realization that this might be why they eschewed this position before. In any case, he knows they have other options. Barca used to sometimes lie upon his back with Pietros straddling him. They can take to that position another day and still look into each other’s eyes and say sweet things. Hoping to send thoughts back in a more sensual direction, Pietros whispers, “Now tell me more of that. Of how much you looked forward to hearing my moans.”

Barca lightly squeezes one of Pietros’ ankles, and then gently nips at it. “I would look forward all day to having you in my arms. I do not know how I survived so long without your touch.”

And not much later, Pietros is indeed moaning uncontrollably as Barca works his hips faster and faster. Pietros squeezes his eyes closed and groans again. Barca then seems to restrain himself and slow down as he asks, “Am I hurting you?”

“No, dear gods, no!” Pietros answers. “In truth, you are hitting that special spot inside of me. So do not cease!”

“I needed to know for certain,” Barca says. He bends down to kiss Pietros once again. And then he moves his hips, rapidly, with purpose. Pietros’ hand again moves too, pumping his own cock. His release soon coats his stomach. Barca watches it and smiles, and then groans and grunts loudly as he succumbs. He pulls out to release onto Pietros’ belly too, as they have agreed in the past that that is acceptable.

Shortly afterwards, the blankets are wrapped closely around the two men. Barca lies upon his back with Pietros curled into him, upon his side, resting his head on Barca’s powerful chest. Barca strokes his hair.

“That alone was worth a trip or two to the underworld,” Pietros says. He enjoys the contrast of Barca’s warmth and his sweaty body against the windy snowiness outside. Barca’s arm around him provides comfort as the fireplace continues to cast its gentle glow.

“Shall we change sides?” Barca asks. “So that you can be closer to the fireplace?”

“I would not move now. I am plenty warm.”

“That gladdens me – but tell me if you do grow too cold later on.” Barca pauses and then asks, “Did I ever tell you of the story of the two Carthaginian lovers who were separated by the gods?”

“You did. But tell it again.”

“I will. I marvel at the fact that they are as we are. One moved the heavens and the earth to bring the other back, so great was his love.” He moves his torso slightly so he can kiss Pietros’ forehead.

“That is where we stand. I love you to the moon and stars and back.”

“And I you, Pietros. I you.”

***

The next morning, the two men depart their cabin and enter the wintery land. They avail themselves of the unfamiliar layers of clothing and boots, which they find inside the closet. Then they walk, hand in hand, through the snow. The white substance crunches under their feet. The cold makes breathing feel odd and it nips at the nose, but Pietros does not mind. He is content with his hand in Barca’s.

In the distance they hear bleats from what can only be goats, so they follow the sound. As they approach, two male voices can be heard.

“Fucking Gaul! That is not how it is done,” one man says.

“Fucking German! Listen to me. Naevia is wiser than both of you combined. If she says it is time to trim their hooves then it is time to trim their hooves!”

Pietros and Barca look at each other. Crixus! They move quickly, and they soon find themselves approaching a farm. Crixus and Naevia stand there with two men who Pietros understands – from Crixus and Naevia’s tales – can only be Agron and Nasir.

“Are we to stand here all day?” the man who must be Nasir asks. His commanding voice belies his smaller stature. “Cease your arguing and carry that bag of feed to the barn. We have much yet to do.”

“And we yet need to trim their hooves!” Naevia insists.

“Do all former house slaves order about their husbands so?” Crixus bemoans in Agron’s direction.

“It would appear we have found our people,” Pietros says to Barca as they stare at the scene.

“So, what do you know of…goat farming?” Barca asks. He clutches at the nearest tree, as if hesitant to move forward.

“No more than you,” Pietros answers simply. “I believe we must prepare to be instructed by Nasir and Naevia and follow their orders for a spell.” He holds his hand out so that Barca will take it once more. “We must look forward to this new challenge and not fear it.”

Barca squeezes his hand, and Pietros steps forward. It is time for Barca to become reacquainted with Crixus and Naevia, and to meet Agron and Nasir. Time for Barca and Pietros to begin their new life together.

**_THE END_ **

**_Comments and feedback appreciated!_ **


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